by Rob Sangster
“Stop!” Gorton snapped. “You two have given me a goddamn headache.”
“Mr. President, you have to listen to me,” Jack said, and instantly knew he’d misspoken when Gorton’s face flushed. Before Jack could soften his words, Gorton spoke.
“No force on this planet can make me listen if I don’t want to. Now you listen to me. You haven’t shown me anything solid, certainly no smoking gun. You’ve made your report to your Commander-in-Chief. I’ll let you know what I decide to do, if anything.”
Jack had been a little intimidated at meeting the President of the United States. He was over that now.
“Mr. President, I can’t leave until you hear what’s going on down there. By coming here, I’ve put myself in a no-win situation. If you dismiss me now, Sinclair will try to destroy me. If you believe me, I’ll be known as a whistleblower, an outcast. Give me a few more minutes. Then, if you want me to, I’ll leave without another word.”
Gorton swiveled slowly side-to-side in his chair, looking first down the table at a man he’d met less than half an hour earlier, then to his right at the man he’d known for decades. He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Strider, you pushed hard to get this in front of me, but Justin’s right. What you have is speculation. I want you to report all the information you have to the Base Commander and write down your suggestions for dealing with it. As far as everything that’s been said in this room, I hereby classify all of it as top secret. If you violate that classification, I’ll have the Secret Service take you into custody.”
His sober tone told Jack that this wasn’t a hollow threat. Jack stood staring at him, trying to decide what to do. If he walked out now, Sinclair would control what happened next. If he pressed his case, someone’s blood would be on the deck a few minutes from now, very likely his.
“Mr. President, if you leave me no other choice, I will hold a media conference on the steps of the Supreme Court building. The New York Times, CBS, CNN, and the rest will come to hear what the son of Judge H. Peckford Strider might reveal.” Ironically, that would be the closest he’d ever get to the Supreme Court now. “Even if you have me locked up afterwards, the media will investigate and confirm that I’m telling the truth. That will be easy because by then it will be too late.”
“You’ve just threatened your president.” Gorton’s tone was icy.
He didn’t respond but returned Gorton’s stare, willing himself not to blink, prepared to hold it for as long as it took.
“I’ve been around long enough to know when a man’s bluffing,” Gorton said, “and you’re not. For Christ’s sake, there’s no need for a public pissing match. We don’t want to spook the good citizens. I think you’re even nuttier than Justin says you are, but I’ll give you a few more minutes. If you don’t convince me, I’ll put you where the sun don’t shine until we extradite you to Mexico to play games with the Juarez cops.”
Sinclair was making no attempt to restrain his merciless smile.
Jack pointed to the photographs on the table next to Gorton. “Those show the black trucks at D-TECH. The report from Dr. Rincon is an analysis of Eberline contamination counter and dosimeter readings from inside the cave. The readings prove there’s radioactive material there.”
“So there are trucks at D-TECH,” Sinclair said. “How amazing. But he can’t show what’s in them and can’t connect them to Palmer Industries. You’ll notice there are no pictures of any trucks at the cave, because it doesn’t even exist. That’s what I mean by speculation.”
“I didn’t take pictures at the cave because the people on the ground were shooting at us. But I have some photos that show the trucks on the road between the cave and Palmer Industries.”
He reached for his cell phone. It was gone. Oh my God. Chief Williams had taken it, and he wasn’t aboard Air Force One. He had to ask Gorton to send for him. But what if Gano’s photos weren’t convincing or, God forbid, he hadn’t sent them? He had to gamble.
“Sir, those photos are on my cell phone, and it’s in the hands of the chief who drove me here from the gate. If you can have him brought aboard—”
“He has no photographs,” Sinclair said contemptuously. “And if he had, we probably couldn’t even tell what continent they were taken on.”
“Mr. Strider,” Gorton said with a sigh, “I don’t have time to chase down some chief. Anything else in your bag of tricks?”
“Yes, sir. This document is a summary of several disaster scenarios that can result from cramming high level nuclear waste into the uncontrolled environment of that cave.” He took it to the President.
“As far as we know, that came from a science fiction writer,” Sinclair taunted.
“It was prepared by Stanford hydrology professor Dr. George McDonald. He’d be here right now to present his findings except—” Jack paused until Sinclair noticed the delay and looked at him. This was the money shot, and Sinclair was the eight ball. “—he was murdered this morning in the parking lot of the Palo Alto Westin Hotel.”
“Jesus, he was murdered?” Gorton exclaimed. “Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Jack stared steadily at Sinclair who now knew the name of the man he’d had assassinated.
“Probably shot by a drugged-out carjacker,” Sinclair said smoothly.
Sinclair was quick. No phony questions about Mac. No denial. Just a brush off, as though they were discussing a traffic ticket given to a stranger, to keep Gorton from thinking that Mac’s murder was relevant.
“I’ll get back to that,” Jack said, “but I want to stay on point. We have D-TECH, trucks and a radioactive cave. Those are the mechanics. Now I’m going to tell you how all this started.”
“You see what he’s trying to do?” Sinclair broke in. “He can’t support this nuclear waste malarkey, but he’s still going to try to blame it on his favorite villains, Montana and Arthur Palmer.”
Jack heard a subtle difference in Sinclair’s voice. Now he sensed the deeper danger and realized he was no longer defending a client. He was the client and in a fight for his life.
“You know better than that,” Jack said. “Montana was a key player. Arthur Palmer probably was too, but they didn’t put it all together.” This was the climax. Everything had led to this moment. “You did that.”
“That’s outrageous,” Sinclair snarled.
“Justin, knock it off,” Gorton ordered, before turning his glare on Jack. “Your histrionics don’t impress me one damn bit. Mr. Strider, you’re obviously a very smart guy, but you seem obsessed with this situation. Now you’ve crossed the line. I will not tolerate—”
Jack knew it was dangerous to interrupt Gorton, but he couldn’t see any way around it. “Sir, Mr. Sinclair came up with a solution to the problem of nuclear waste piling up all over the U.S.—ship it to Mexico. Mr. Sinclair had Montana find a dump site, which turned out to be a remote cave. Next, he lined up D-TECH as a place to collect large quantities of nuclear waste. When companies are secretly approached about reducing their stockpiles of nuclear waste, they’re happy to pay exorbitant fees to get the stuff out of their possession before it causes a catastrophe or they have to shut down.”
“May I be heard now?” Sinclair asked quietly.
“It better be good,” Gorton said.
Sinclair stood slowly, then rose onto the balls of his feet like an old matador poised to deliver the coup de gras.
“A common thread runs through the fabrications of this felon. No proof of anything. If I’d set up the scheme he’s ranting about, I would have had to talk with all those suppliers of nuclear waste, even someone at Palmer Industries. If I had done that, Strider could provide names of all those people.” Sinclair looked smug. “Because he can’t do that, I’m going to sue his ass off for slander.”
“When you were a spy,” Jack counter
ed, “you learned to work covertly. I’m sure that’s what you did in this case, too. You used an anonymous intermediary to deal with suppliers of nuclear waste. But you left D-TECH off your list just now. That’s because D-TECH was different. You had to deal with someone there personally, but you were confident you’d never be exposed. And that is your Achilles’ heel.”
Gorton studied Sinclair pensively, then looked at Jack again. “Put up or shut up, Mr. Strider. Do you have those names, or witnesses, or even affidavits that support the accusations you’ve made?”
“Sir, taken as a whole my evidence is overwhelming.”
“Then your answer is ‘no,’ so I’ll sum up where I stand. You haven’t proven that the events you described actually happened, or that the events you predict will happen. In addition, you face a very heavy burden of proof when you accuse a respected former Secretary of State of being a criminal. You haven’t come close to meeting that burden. Further, he’s someone for whom I have very high regard.” He drew on his cigar. “I have to ask myself what is your motive for being here. Maybe you want revenge against Arthur Palmer, this fellow Montana, and Justin as well. The letter from you to Justin saying you intended to turn on your own client shoots your credibility to hell. Lastly, and this is part of real life for any president, the actions you want me to take would sink me and my party politically.”
“But sir—”
“I’m not finished,” Gorton said sharply. “At the same time, you have spun out two scenarios with considerable detail. You haven’t convinced me, but if either is close to reality, the consequences could be severe. Therefore, one of my staff will contact an outside contractor we use and get some boots on the ground down there to take a look—wells, cave, the whole shooting match. Now, stand by outside while I confer with Justin.” Gorton’s tone was absolute.
Before Jack could react, the phone buzzed.
Gorton started to push the speaker button, but glanced at Jack and picked up the handset instead. “Yes, Chief?” He listened. “Emergency? Then come in.”
Jack caught his breath. Thank God. The two people he’d been depending on had finally arrived. This would turn things around.
But instead of Debra and Gano coming into the room, a massive African-American man in a khaki suit was standing close behind the Chief in the doorway. The Chief nodded back toward the man and said, “Mr. President, this is Mr. Corte from the National Security Agency. He says there’s an emergency, and he needs to speak with you immediately.”
“I’m already waist deep in emergencies,” Gorton snapped. “Escort Mr. Corte to a seat in the press section.”
Corte stepped forward, nudging the Chief to the side with his elbow. “Mr. President, sir, there’s nothing more urgent than the reason I’m here.” Corte’s bass voice was tight. “We have a situation.”
That must have been a code phrase because Gorton immediately said, “Very well, come in.”
Corte looked at Jack, nearest to him, then Sinclair. He blinked at each, as if making separate mental files.
Gorton said, “Tell me what this is about.”
“I can’t do that, sir. Only eleven people in the country have the necessary security clearance. These people are not on that list, sir.” He held up an envelope sealed with blue tape. The only marking on the outside read Top Secret-Crypto: Yankee Fire-Eyes Only. “This came to your Communications Office and was immediately routed to the National Security Advisor. That was—” He checked a communications device in his other hand. “—eight minutes ago.”
“Give me the envelope.”
“Sir, with these people here, I’m not authorized—”
“I gave you an order, damn it.” Gorton took the envelope, ripped off one end, and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
He read it quickly and gasped, “Sweet Jesus.”
Chapter 49
July 12
1:15 p.m.
JACK SAW THE color go out of Gorton’s face as he read the paper again and cut his eyes to the chronometer on the bulkhead. His mouth opened and closed. Whatever was written on that paper had stunned the president of the United States.
“Corte, get the National Security Advisor on the phone—and someone from DOE who understands this stuff.”
“Sir,” Corte said, “I’ll patch them through to your secure line. We have to keep this inside the room. And these other two gentlemen will have to be placed in quarantine.” Corte straightened to his full height of at least six feet eight inches and took a step toward Sinclair.
Gorton’s balm went up. “You’re not putting the former Secretary of State in quarantine. Both of them stay here. In fact, I hereby grant everyone in this room whatever the hell crypto clearance you’re talking about.”
Uh oh, Jack thought. He’s let Sinclair off the hook again. But Corte’s arrival had also kept Jack from getting the heave-ho from Gorton.
“Yes, sir,” Corte answered. He tapped numbers into a tiny keyboard. “National Security Advisor on the line, sir. She has a copy of the demand.”
Gorton hurried to the end of the conference table and picked up his phone. “What’s this about?” He listened. “How long will that take?” After another pause, he snapped, “Don’t keep me waiting,” and hung up. “Get me the DOE expert,” he ordered Corte.
He handed the paper to Sinclair. “Read this.”
Sinclair scanned the single page. “Son of a bitch.” He read it again, mouthing the words. Then he glanced at Jack and handed it back to Gorton.
To Jack, Corte looked like the type who prides himself on never losing his cool. Yet he was in high-stress mode. Gorton was too. Jack took a chance and held out his hand. Gorton absentmindedly gave him the document.
To: President Jason Gorton
We have hidden a number of dirty bombs in the United States and Mexico. Each bomb contains highly radioactive waste, C-4 and TNT explosives, and drums of JP8 aviation gas.
Our requirements:
Transfer $100 million to us before 7 p.m. today or we will detonate all bombs.
Wire that amount to Union de Banques Suisse, Clearing #230, private account #085-292163-7459650, before the deadline. If you attempt to interfere in any way before we withdraw the funds, we will detonate all bombs.
If you locate a bomb, any effort to tamper with it will detonate it.
When withdrawal is complete, we will reveal the locations of all bombs. A flashing green light will indicate a bomb can be safely disassembled.
We want only money. After receiving payment, we have nothing to gain by detonation and will not do so.
There will be no further communication until we inform you of the locations of the bombs. Do not doubt our ability or our willingness to carry out our threat.
Jack carefully set the page on the table. He couldn’t get his mind around the magnitude of this threat. The specificity of detail was chilling and made it credible. But would it be called off even if payment were made?
“Corte,” Gorton said, “do the people who wrote this know what they’re talking about?”
“No doubt about it, sir. The C-4 will rupture the nuclear waste containers and release intense radioactive contamination. The TNT, detonated a second later, will disperse the radioactivity. Burning aviation gas will create a plume of smoke sufficient to carry radioactive gasses for hundreds of miles.”
“Hundreds?” Gorton repeated in disbelief. His face was like a zombie mask. Instead of taking command, he seemed incapable of speech.
“Mr. President,” Corte said, “I have Dr. Poindexter from DOE holding on the line. I’ve given him the parameters of this hypothetical situation. Dr. Poindexter is Director of—”
Gorton snapped back into the moment. “I don’t care what his title is. Put him on the speaker.”
Corte glanced at the others as if about to ma
ke another security objection, but apparently thought better of it. “He’s on the speaker, Mr. President.”
“Dr. Poindexter, Mr. Corte briefed you about a hypothetical situation we’ve been discussing here. Tell me what would happen if someone set off a dirty bomb with the characteristics Corte described to you.”
“Mr. President, there are so many variables that—”
“Take your best shot or get me someone who will.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Dr. Poindexter was clearly agitated by the unexpected call from his Commander-in-Chief. “First, the blast and shrapnel from explosion of a medium-size dirty bomb could flatten buildings and start fires in an area of about eight acres. After that, radiation would be a serious hazard to anyone nearby, including law enforcement and emergency response personnel. Cleanup workers and people living or working in the area would also be at serious risk. We estimate that cleanup of a single urban area would cost more than $4 billion and take three years, maybe longer.”
Gorton sucked in a breath, blew it out. “How far would radioactivity spread?”
“In a form people could inhale, not far unless there was a substantial fire in connection with a blast, or high winds. In those cases, radioactivity could be carried in a plume of smoke that could put people within fifty square miles at high risk of irradiation and contamination.”
“Exactly what does that mean for people on the ground?”
“Some would inhale radionuclides carried by the plume. Others would be poisoned by gamma radiation deposited on the ground. Drinking water would be contaminated by radioactivity. People wouldn’t know anything was wrong until symptoms of radiation poisoning knocked them flat. After that—”
“That’s enough, Poindexter. I have the picture. Keep this conversation secret. That’s an order.” Gorton clicked off the speaker. “We’re in a hell of a mess. Corte, can you trace this e-mail?”